The return of Albert Ross

I would not be thwarted. The weather forecast on Sunday at seven still said a fine sunny day with high wispy clouds, and so I set out just after eight, with the water bottles and couscous tin replenished. I admit I was keeping a nervous eye on the secondhand front wheel and tyre of unknown age, but after I had reached Mere half an hour later I relaxed slightly. I stopped at the over bridge where the A303 passes over the road to Frome. A few months ago a Dutch woman had been sat there for a few days, waiting out the bad weather as she tramped around England with a rucksack and sleeping bag. I read about it in the paper, and thought how similar a lifestyle I had had when I passed through her country.

I rode past the layby where I had photographed the flowers, on further past the scenes of the front-wheel lockup and subsequent bodge, finding the second layby now taken up by a large lorry. I had passed beyond the previous day's farthest point, and carried on up the steady rise to Stourhead, where there was a sign, 'CAUTION CYCLISTS'. Did they know I was coming? But it looked as though there was a cycle meeting that day. I hate riding with other cyclists, they always want to go faster than I find comfortable.

I turned off the busy B-road onto Stourton Lane and rode through Kilmington Common, through an avenue of Ash, Sycamore and Beech trees, reached the crossroads at Yarnfield Gate, and went whirring and whistling down the steep descent towards Witham Friary.

I stopped before I reached the village, to brew a cup of coffee and have couscous by a small stream. The ground by the bridge was too soft to support the bike on its centre-stand, so I parked it on the edge of an entrance to a farm. It was out of sight, but as the couscous was cooking in the plastic noodle wok the farmer turned up in his turbo diesel four-wheel drive vehicle, and we chatted amiably about the bike and the terrible roads and how country folk have a harder time than city folk because their fuel costs more.

As usual, I had to get the camera out. I was particularly fascinated by the plants growing on the bridge stones, a microcosm almost.









I set off just as a horseman rode by at a trot, and followed him up the little hill until he slowed to a walk and I was able to pass him, then rolling down into and through Witham Friary. I passed the road I was due to take and rode through the village and back again because I had a little video recorder mounted on the handlebars, with which I am hoping to make DVD's of the countryside for my mother and little petal's mother to watch, because they are now too old to walk for long distances, and even find sitting in trains and on buses for long periods painful.

I passed through Upton Noble after a long uphill climb, crossed over the Bruton to Frome road, and sped downhill towards Batcombe. I had forgotten how steep and how long the hills were, and decided then and there to return by a different route. I climbed through the steep slopes of Batcombe and rode along to a tiny junction in a hollow by a stone house with curving corners, not a right-angle in sight, and then set off on the final stage of the ride.

As I passed through the lane, saying to the video recorder that I would try to find a gateway so that I could show them the panoramic views, I saw a small badger trotting towards me. The gap between us closed to about twenty feet, and then it realised I was there and turned to scamper back the way it had came. I followed carefully, not wishing to get too close to it, because badgers have a fearsome reputation when cornered. They will bite and clamp down until they feel bones crack, which is why professional badger-hunters wear shin-pads made of bamboo, to try and fool the badger into letting go early. As we rounded the bend, I saw two figures and a big black dog walking towards me, and the badger scampered towards them. For a moment I thought I was mistaken, and it was actually a small dog running back to its owner, but then the black dog barked and lunged towards it, and the three of us met in the centre of the road, me shouting furiously at the dog to leave it. The dog backed off in confusion, and the badger darted through the hedge and crashed noisily along for a few seconds.

Further on, the women and their dog now out of sight, I met another badger, much larger, loping along the road, but this one dashed into the hedge before I could press the record button. I stopped at the gateway I had been looking for and took some sweeping shots to show the abrupt hills and valleys around me. Somerset has a ruggedness that Wiltshire lacks.

I rode down a hill and along a stretch of road that used to flood regularly in the winters, when I drove these roads each morning and evening on my way to and from Nailsea for a few months working on PDP11's and Microvaxes that were used to control oil and gas platforms. As I passed the farm where the ground began to rise again a dog leapt the low stone wall of the cottage gardens and started to chase me, snapping at my ankles. I swore at the top of my voice at it, because there was no sound of the animal's owner calling it back. I got away from it without getting nipped, but was already well up the steep slope before I had time to try and get a lower gear. The chain is still too taught under load to change smoothly, so I was forced to tread hard on the pedals and climb the slope as best I could. A cow leaning over the wire fence to chew the longer grass on the top of the bank stared at me for a few seconds, then withdrew abruptly into the field.

I reached the bridge over the line by the station at a quarter to twelve. Allowing for the stop for coffee, I had travelled twenty-one miles in three hours. I know cyclists are supposed to be able to average 12 mph, but I like to go at my own pace, and I was carrying twenty-four pounds of baggage, as well as myself, and this was my first serious ride for twenty years. I was elated, but a horribly sweaty camel, and felt the need to hang around the bridge for twenty minutes drying off and cleaning up a bit before rolling down the slope and into the station parking area.



It was a busy lunchtime outside the restaurant, a large party of two or three families at one cluster of picnic tables, several other groups of people, and up the steps that lead to the platform and ticket office I could see still more people. I was glad, because preserved lines like the East Somerset depend on visitors; after all, what is a railway without people? But I wasn't going to lug the bike and baggage up the steps, and felt I would rather sit and watch the scene from a distance. I wheeled the bike over to beneath a small conker tree and stretched out on the grass beside it, taking off my shoes and thick outer socks.

I had lunch, a bagel, some cheese, a piece of red onion, and a good handful of raw spinach leaves, and decided not to brew up coffee. It would be a bit unfair to the nearby restaurant, and I realised I didn't actually need a coffee, it was just an old habit. I did have a five pound note in my pocket, but that was for emergencies, and I kept it away from my greedy little fingers. I wheeled the bike over to the other side of the car-park to see if there was somewhere I could sit and just watch the platform scene, but there wasn't, and I decided that instead, I would video the train further along the line, where it passed under a majestic road bridge.

After a short ride up a mild hill, I was rolling down a wooded lane and round a bend, to find my bridge. I parked the bike against the wall and fiddled with the video camera mount on the handlebars until it could just see over the parapet without getting pointless shots of not quite such a blue sky, and waited for the train. I got my shots of it, filming it climbing up to the bridge on my Kodak, which has a video mode, and using the handlebar camera to view it thudding slowly on round the bend out of sight.









Once again, I debated whether to have coffee, and decided not to, because I was down to only a litre of water left, and I would need that for the journey home. I was going to wait for the next train, an hour away, so I ate the tinned sardines, and kept the apple for later. I filmed some of the hedgerow flowers and the surrounding scenery for the mothers, and snapped a few more interesting bits of wild plants for my collection. The train returned, I got my shots, and then packed everything away and set off back up the hill.

The sky looked ominously grey ahead, even when I pushed my sunglasses up for a better look, and I realised that it was going to rain. This hadn't been in the forecast I had checked that morning, but at least I did have a lightweight anorak and waterproof trousers. I also had an ex-army poncho that could, in extreme conditions, be thrown over the parked bike, allowing me to crouch underneath out of the worst of the weather. The first few drops began hitting me even as I told the film that it was going to rain and the camera was going to have to go back in the bag. I pulled on the waterproofs and set off again.

The rain fell harder, bouncing off the road surface so much that for a few moments I thought it might be hail. I stopped to check the map on the approach to Wanstrow, and once more when I reached the village and crossed the main road. I had decided to avoid riding along for a couple of miles in the spray of passing traffic by taking a track shown on the map that ran from the southern edge of the village, through fields, over the railway line, and rejoined the main road a hundred yards or so from the turning that lead to Upton Noble. I rode along the metalled surface, which then became rougher, with large chippings that thumped and clonked under the tyres so much that I began to fear a puncture. After a steep climb over the railway line bridge and a short slippery descent the surface deteriorated into rutted mud and I could no longer ride. I pushed the bike uphill for about half a mile, my feet now squelching with each step, until I reached the road again.

After Upton Noble I had a long downhill glide, and then a steady rise to pedal up, before the road between Maiden Bradley and Bruton came in view. Over in the distance, a long way up, was Alfred's Tower, looming through the clouds and rain high over the surrounding trees. I knew that, even though I was going East, away from it, I was still going to have to climb that high to reach the general level of the land around Kilmington. I rolled downhill for a mile to the valley floor and then began the long ascent. The rain hadn't stopped, but I was now soaked inside my waterproofs from condensing sweat, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I was halfway up the mile and a half climb when I knew I wasn't going to be able to ride all the way up. My shoes, socks and trouser legs were soaked and heavy, stealing some of the effort from my muscles, but worse, I was too tired to control the bike properly. Due to the different shape of the Pedersen, a rider can put a lot more pedal effort in without having to stand up, and in fact the strap joining saddle to fork tube actually prevents standing and pedalling, but that means more weight is on the back wheel than the front, and the extra effort I was putting into the pedals was lifting the front wheel off the ground, when I then flailed uselessly with the handlebars until the wheel met the tarmac once more. I reached a house opposite a track into the woods and turned in through the gate, to stand under the trees and recover slightly.

I had aches and pains, was wet, but not yet cold, and knew I could still make it home, but I needed a rest. The trees stopped most of the rain from hitting me directly, and I took the crash helmet off for a while. I still had the packet of soup in the bag, but very little water, and getting the stove going in this weather would be a major task. I ate the apple instead, glad now that I had not wolfed it down earlier on, a benefit of my learning to control my appetite over these past few months.

I pushed up the remainder of the hill and rode the few hundred yards of slight incline to the crossroads where earlier that day I had taken the Witham Friary road. Now I was able to start retracing my way, and after a short ride up the slope was able to get back onto the largest chainwheel and start travelling at a good speed. A group of cyclists on drop-handlebar machines came towards me and were gone, and I realised that it was no longer actually raining. I flipped the anorak hood off, and felt damp cool air rushing past my head.

It was only a few miles back to Mere, and it was all downhill, but I kept pedalling, until I came back into the houses and parked by the Spar shop, which I knew would be open even on a Sunday afternoon. I went inside with my five pound note and hovered by the hot food counter. There was a sign saying Bacon Patties, and I asked the lad what was left. He pointed to a small pasty and said 'This is chicken balti..." I didn't even bother to let him finish. "It's mine," I said, and got a couple of packets of salted peanuts, and a litre of water from the fridge.

I stood outside, tearing into the pasty, then eating the first pack of peanuts in a more civilised way, and drank half of the water. Some kids were kicking a small ball around, bouncing it high off the sloping roof of the memorial building. I kicked it back to them when it got away and rolled beneath a pair of cars passing in opposite directions, without getting squashed by either of the sets of tyres. The occupants of the cars looked fat and ungainly, only the kids in the street were slim and healthy-looking. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the shop window and realised what a desperado I must appear to be.

Some of the aches I had been feeling in my shoulders and arms had gone now, but I still rode carefully out of Mere. What I had done in the frantic four-mile dash was burn up reserves stored in the muscles, forcing the body to stop burning up the fat and instead go back on the sugars. I hadn't bought sweets or biscuits in the shop, because I learned a long time ago that they only give you a short boost of energy, and when the effect dies away, you can feel even more fatigued than before you ate them. I stopped by the stream halfway home to eat the second pack of peanuts, drink some more water, and take off the waterproofs. I realised, looking at the road, that it hadn't rained here, or if it had, it had only done so briefly. The forecast had been right after all, and I should have checked a forecast for my destination as well.

I got home at half-past five, having ridden up the long final hill, and was able to take off the wet clothes, light the fire to get hot water for a bath, and sit down to watch the Canadian Grand Prix.

I had ridden a total of 54 miles in six hours saddle time, a typical daily distance when I was on my travels. And just like those old days, Albert Ross had shown his true colours by conjuring up the weather. It's an old joke, you see; I called my bike Albert Ross, a pun on Albatros, a stormy bird, because I seemed to meet such awful weather when I rode around on it.

The sharp-eyed will have already noticed that in my side-bar links is an entry for Albert Ross; I am going to seperate future stories about the bike from this blog. Again, it's another play on words and meanings, because the Albatros was Germany's fighter plane that was the direct counterpart to the British Sopwith Camel and the SE5A. I started this blog fifteen months ago as the Sopwith Camel, outdated, slow and ungainly, lumbering by modern standards, but am changing fast. The Albert Ross side of me should have a seperate blog, because although it may become my future yet again, it is very largely my past.